Issuu

Owen Mundy

canvas

a creative arts magazine

Cover design by Kate Ferrucci Hong Kong (inside cover) 2 Holiday ...................... On a Pilgrimage for Pad Thai .................... 3 Shivers: The Absence ..... 4 Crescent Searchlight ...... Cypress...................... Robin's Power ............. 5 Leaf Frond I ............... Last Six Lines to a Much Longer Poem ............... 6 (the dumpster is covered in snow...).................. 7 Perfect Resolution ......... The First Female Nude ... 8 (photo)...................... 9 (Crumpled rug sits...) .... Condemned ................. 10 Something Crazy .......... A Shakespearean Something .................. 11 (photo)...................... 12 I Can't Believe It's Not Butter .................. 13 (photo)...................... 14 Ramblings for Your Enjoyment .................. 15 (photo)...................... 16 Anonymous Song ..........

Owen Mundy Jason Shimotake

17 18

Heather Danielewicz Eric Stephens Tiffany Farber Stephanie Lawyer Tiffany Farber John T. Pearson Frank Montesonti Carrie Vrabel Frank Montesonti Eric Stephens Owen Mundy John T. Pearson Pearl Chan Tim Rogers Tim Rogers Owen Mundy Stephanie Lawyer Owen Mundy Brant Fechter Owen Mundy Adam Balbo

A Blank Space Where We Used to Be ............. Every Evening .............

A Change.................... 19

My First .................... Mildred ...................... 20 Backyard Superhero....... 21 Michigan .................... 22 (photo) ...................... 23 (photo)...................... 26 Ed ............................ 28 Armani ...................... 29 San Toki, Toki-ya .......... 31 (photo)...................... 34 (photo)...................... 36 (i pay you 10 dollars...).. Rupture ..................... 37 Emma Jean Listens to Mama .................... 38 my muse................... Cocoon ...................... 39 The Beach .................. 40 Busia ......................... 41 Knowing Without Legs ... 42 The Orange Truck ......... Dirt on the Road........... 43 Ugalino and Sons .......... 44 High School in a Nutshell. (inside cover) ..............

Director: Assistant Assistant Assistant Assistant

Katherine Ruddick Director, Poetry & Prose: Kimberly Lux Director, Artwork: Jen Mullin Director, Events: Erik Gibson Director, Layout: Megan Fennell Advisor: Lakshmi Hasanadka Canvas is a biannual publication featuring poetry, prose, and visual arts created Bloomington. Work may be submitted during submission callout periods, usually dates vary from semester to semester. For questions concerning the magazine, Union Board, call 855-IMUB, email canvas@indiana.edu, or visit the Union Board

Pearl Chan Nicolette Bond Sarah Assenmacher Aaron Spicer John T. Pearson Brant Fechter Mark Sniadecki Owen Mundy Owen Mundy Mark Sniadecki Blake Carrington Tasha Aardappel Owen Mundy Owen Mundy

Carrie Vrabel Jason Shimotake Stephanie Lawyer Michael Clarkson Mark Sniadecki Blake Carrington Heather Danielewicz Eric Stephens Jean-Marie Ruiz Chris Gemkow Abel Dolby Michael Loch Alyssa Hill

Staff: Rysiu Velazquez Sarah Franks Amy O'Neal Matt Van Voorhis by students of Indiana University January and September, though specific its committee or the Indiana Memorial office in IMU Room 270.

Each work is the property of the author or artist and may not be reproduced without the permission of the author or artist. The views represented in the magazine are not necessarily those of the Canvas committee, Union Board, the Indiana Memorial Union, or Indiana University. Special thanks to PHA Printing for your help with the printing and design of Canvas.

Holiday

Jason Shimotake

Chicago is in her holiday outfit, the Christmas lights batting electric eyelashes in mid-November. Thanksgiving Day, holiday littered with paper bag pilgrims subtle brainwash of the American youth who would later read about the eighty million who were sold, tricked, or traded, so everyone could eat yams and turkey and whipped potatoes. A Japanese man walks down the street, he'll never really understand the lies, only knows he's supposed to eat more and fall asleep watching the Bears on television. A Japanese woman walks up the street, she'll probably drink too much tonight, smoke too many cigarettes, and linger onto some guy like her exhaled smoke hangs on air of a crowded apartment owned by her boss. The elevator is stuffed. Twelve whites, four blacks, two yellows, a cat and two turkeys. But it doesn't matter anymore, black touches white at the hip, turkey touches yellow in the face, and everyone laughs and some eyes meet for lingered seconds where everything makes sense and for two yellows the seconds turn into years of yams and turkey and whipped potatoes with no real explanation why.

On a Pilgrimage for Pad Thai- Chicago, Summer of '99 Heather Danielewicz North side of Chicago - Clark St - near Addison. I know I've seen the blue neon sign before. Pad Thai-that's the name of the place right? But where is it now? Left side towards Wrigley. My mouth waters, I crave it like an addict. Noodles, peanut 'sauce, broccoli, tofu. Perhaps even an order of fried tofu. The El rushes past overhead. I cringe. Past Fly Me to the Moon (reminds me of a gangster hangout). Past Pick-Me-Up caf. And there it is - the blue neon sign - Pad Thai. I enter; take a seat, the woman (she speaks broken English) tries to give me a menu. "No need," I say, "I'll have number 2-Pad Thai."

Shivers: the Absence

Eric Stephens

These winds. Snaking under my sleeves. Coming forth from autumn. Whispering of winter. They remind me of that first cold. That chill. As I hung there naked. Wet. Dangling from some doctor's hands. Just thrust from my mother's womb. These winds. Brushing chimes together into organic rhythm. Hanging there from trees and above doorways. Creating random song that takes me back to my crib. My baby-cage. It must have been winter. I had been created. Formed and constructed, with little ease on the part of man. Late August, '79. Ten p.m. A dark sky, thick with thunder, welcomed me. Lightning still burns my eyes on stormy nights. I still stare in amazement. Into its core. I came after my brother. A year and four months. Five years after my father found my mother in her own little world: Fingers all in dance, brushing plastic keys. Typing with rhythm. Enjoying the rush to the end of a line. The ringing of the typewriter as she reached it. The return. The pause. And starting again. Noticing a small picture frame on her desk, holding a horse within its edges, he questioned her, does your husband like horses? And when she replied, no. I don't have a husband. Not even winter winds could have held them back. Not even snakes in the snow. That day in the hospital. They waited on me for hours. Did I not want to come? Was I waiting for just the right moment to expose myself? Maybe they had wanted a girl, already having one boy. And I, lacking ovaries, was afraid to disappoint them. So I concealed myself as I emerged. Little hands reaching down. Folding over private parts not required.

Crescent Searchlight

Tiffany Farber

Silent night hushes The Earth hides beneath the snow Shine, crescent searchlight

Cypress Robins' Power

Tiffany Farber

Flaming red chests heave A chorus of fiery song Slowly melts the pond

Stephanie Lawyer

Leaf Frond I

Pearson John T.

cross steps of field risen footfalls in frost passed over winter's watch sewn stalled reflections peripheries atolled like a lit hall biding tread trickled routes

mist beyond back cover before flank's will folds, over events seamed strewn hung collections of edict's summary as a damp drawl bathes us by trickled link

formed flaking mass congealed streaks limber rim to fragile trail switch back churning out quiltstitched and crystal formed tufts so tender still laced holds bond

rust into rain passive beads running in consequent trail like flooded yarn plied layer on pleated raise press soak and stream till lines turn long

days too culminate space so like frostbitten hills serve as reference in a sheening glaze

days in culminate grace grow through surfacing spur to a load inlain and temporal rains over a trickled trail days culminate

Last Six Lines to a Much Longer Poem Frank Montesonti The lonesome organ player stands In the middle of the piazza singing To the love he has never met. And all of a sudden all his notes Float out into the sky and become stars But who could sing that composition?

(the dumpster is covered in snow...)

Carrie

the dumpster is covered in snow and my cigarette smoke looks dark and thick against the clear cold night snowflakes are falling like fibers of fabric dressing me in a pure white wedding dress and i'm being bathed now in marriage vows exhaling them out into the air like streams of heat. and lust fading and dissolving into the you standing before me invisible and young i'll stay outside all night with you growing old in fast forward turning my hair frozen and.white because the snowflakes are coming down in night stained sheets and

light is like the climax is like the chorus but right now i can't get past the first verse and i don't want to because the snowflakes are falling like fibers of fabric dressing me in a pure white wedding dress landing on cold metal playing tiny bells resonating through the empty beer kegs and i'm being bathed now in marriage vows exhaling them out into the air like streams of heat and lust fading and dissolving into the you standing before me

Perfect Resolution

Frank Montesonti

like a frothing in the street To whom have I given this gift, to the dog on fire torch, to the child in static blankets recharging in anticipation of daylight, to myself who sleepwalks to understand the desire of rivers? I go to bed on nails like a body tenderizer. I like to imagine the sun as a giant coin tossed into the sea. I only wish for solitude. The white shirt on the hanger seems to be the ghost of former prosperity. Maybe it's the incarnation of the idea of wind, maybe a child frozen in a block of ice in eternal scream. The moon drips lava onto the earth like a candlestick which is also a finger. Growing horizontally out of my ears are two tulip trees. In Spring they bloom with perfect resolution.

The First Female Nude

Eric Stephens

female Who painted the first It must have been a man, who wrestled it out first. The They were the flowers. nude. Women, back then. They lacked opportunities. Roses. That men plucked from the wild, and put in pots on windowsills. Downtown. People everywhere. Constant motion. From shop to vendor. From vendor to merchant. As if haphazardly choreographed. A dress rehearsal of untrained actors. Living out their plays. Live performances on every street corner. She stood out. The curve of her back, straightened. Stressing attention to the ruffles of her dress. The slow fluff as she moved, as if her legs had lungs. Breathing, as she walked. Each breath, carrying her next step. He had seen her. Knowing a moment would not be enough. Knowing he could not fully take in this wonder, this woman, in one breath of a glance. He wanted to study each color as it shaped around each form. From forehead to pinky toe. He wanted to know it all. How each form connected. Curved. Compromised his

standing. Some twitching muscle. Beginning He approached her with nervous movement. above his hips. Feeding up through his throat. Until he forced out a whisper. And asked her to pose. Cheeks lit up with fire. She blushed the first time. Walking before him nude. Muted, before it burned. Breasts behind her hands. Cradled a little too tight. The nervous laughter as he sat her on the couch, covered all the way soft with satin. Indigo. To heighten and complement the warm flesh tones. He put brush to paint to canvas. into the depths of a shadow. The brush across the canvas, as if he rise and slope of skin and bone. Until he felt he could reach into Something human.

In careful study of her skin: the way it fell edge soft, before it disappeared. He moved his was silently sliding two fingers across each Muscle. Tissue. Until he had it right. his canvas. And pull out something beautiful.

Owen Mundy 8

(Crumpled rug sits...)

John T. Pearson

Crumpled rug sits beside box, cardboard much has fell upon this house planks creak with wear and a bit of fishing line wound around tree dangles as if a fish would leap the log you cut one winter's night stands now on its side pine bark like a hedgehog this house has stood lent weight to lake's bank it has reviewed trail's of rippled dredge leaf, on top of leaf, on top of leaf and we too have stood by stumbled gaze at instance caught homing ourselves for Zsuzsa

Condemned

PearlChan

Coming out of lecture After dozing Dante's Inferno I have lost the path that does not stray Push through heavy doors Blink twice Hard drops hit my face The gate is locked When can I eat my doughnut? Squashed Boston cream waxed paper bag Cold nose dry mouth Terza della rima Musical words that I can't sing

Owen Mundy

Something Crazy

Tim Rogers

Two slices of invisible pizza Lay cheese-down, flat on the sidewalk In obtrusively unorthodox pornographic angles. Forgive me, Something Crazy, for I have sinned: I have had impure thoughts of another beverage Its carbonated water courses through my veins Its high fructose corn syrup seeps out my tear ducts And its red food coloring stains What is filtered by my kidneys Passed from an airplane flying above a mountain range Freezes, forms a crude stake And impales an intrepid Cro-Magnon climber In the midst of a final deep knee-bend And a wipe with his wrist, opposable thumb downward Across his sweaty brow ridge Before he can comprehend the notion That something crazy is set in motion.

A Shakespearean Something Alack! Of all the places scattr'd throughout This mortal realm betwixt Heaven and Hell, Where's worse for a car to exhaust its last Than the parking lot of a Taco Bell? That skin once glitter'ng, now faded to chipped, Eyes through which I saw before now smeared, Darkness-penetrating beacons clouded, The light that lit the dome of reason, dimmed. To hear the rattle of its dying breaths, I realize oldest women were brides; We cannot pick where to die our own deaths, Though we lay manhandl'd by fiery tides.

Tim Rogers

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

Stephanie Lawyer

I just want a snack, thought Tom, so he, a smallish boy in those awkward pre-pubescent years, wearing faded blue jeans with a hole, around which tattered white strings limply lay, in the left knee, scuffed Keds and a red windbreaker, examined his options with the utmost of careful consideration as he stood in front of the open refrigerator door, a pasty almond in coloration and matching the rest of the large icebox looming above, scratching lightly at the right side of his nose as he sometimes did when deep in contemplation and feeling the chilly fingers of the seeping cold tangling themselves around his frame, gazing at the top shelf which housed the small plastic container of sour cream, a blue and white carton of non-dairy whipped topping, which, he thought, might top off rather well a Hostess Twinkie or two or perhaps one of the Ring Dings he'd hidden behind the breadbox if his father, known as Stinky Pete to his friends and neighbors because of his tendency to lift items not belonging to himself, hadn't already found and devoured the pre-packaged chocolate-flavored morsel, and a tub of mother's latest passion -~I Can't Believe it's Not Butter - and thus finding nothing of interest, he looked to the next shelf, which, he decided, patting his rumbling stomach, must hold more promise than the first, and noticed that the remaining lunch meat, in its sagging wrapper of clear plastic, seemed a bit rubbery in texture not to mention just a wee bit greenish around the edges and that the yellow colby cheese had grown a new coat since the last time it had made an appearance on the dining room table and that, taking a closer look, the coat was rather fuzzy in nature with smallish spheres waving gently, beckoning to him, in the wafting coolness of the aging Amana, and he wondered briefly if such fuzz was edible and if so what it might taste like, though, peeling away the remaining plastic wrap, changed his mind and placed it back on the shelf between the half empty carton of grovestand fresh but pulp-free orange juice and the can of refrigerator biscuits that could be opened by banging the container, at just the right spot along the silvery sliver that spiraled the blue cardboard, sharply on the counter and with a loud sucking smmok! brought forth the ashen dough, oozing from the now-parted lips, that could be pulled apart along the pre-cut lines and put onto a cookie sheet, or a pie plate as his mother sometimes did, and baked until they were a crisp-edged golden and then eaten warm with sweet melting margarine, though, sadly, Tom thought, shaking his head, I can't use the oven while Mama's gone, so he looked next to the vegetable bins for his gurgling tummy's release but found only a bag of drying carrots, white-frosted with lack of moisture, and a few stray and wilted leaves of lettuce, sticky with their own digestive juices and clinging to the bottom of the plastic drawer as a lover might to his mistress before a fortnight's absence, which, he decided, was just plain nasty and quickly kicked at the bin until it disappeared from sight beneath the clear plastic shelf that held only a quart of rancid buttermilk and a browning tomato, shriveled and contracting into itself as if attempting to reverse the process of its maturation, and shut the door. Tom sighed and put his hand into the pocket of his jacket, feeling the soft folds of the wrinkled bills his mother had left for him on the table, and turning slowly, he walked away from the hulking and fruitless appliance, muttering to himself, "I guess I'll have to order a pizza after all."

Owen Mundy

Ramblings for Your Enjoyment

Brant Fechter

The twisted tale that's G-rated with whoopee and violence All started in Al Roker's bedroom in 1984. Siamese, midget, homosexual twins who always repeated what the other said And rank of a scentless fragrance busted in. No two people are the same except Who were as scared as a goat in a That still can't believe "I can't Isn't the butter that the heifers

them, cow stampede, believe it's not butter" milk out each morning.

I taught the duo to stop tripping the blind, Walking the streets with their dogs and canes, Who are attracted to only the plumbers of the world And read their braille guides to learn to read Latin I was as happy as singing and tap-dancing, merry midgets! I became king of the 50 Cotton/50 Poly Fields, Pink furry bunny rabbits all with the name of Bork Hoisted me up as we all sang in harmony It was quite a task of tackling such a harsh world Full of noogies, knuckle sandwiches,'and hurts donuts I was born with the advantage of a mind full of shit And the ability to live the life of a cartoon in this boreville I had hustled all the Milli Vanillis and Beavis and Buttheads who Are invisible to all except the deaf, dumb, & mutes on Radio Which is the blind's word for TV Actually I'm just forging on at four o'clock in the dull morning Into my own fantasy where nothing makes sense, Except that I'm the braveheart who everyone looks up to Because I provide the sarcasm that makes up their enjoyment Imagination is the only way to get the wings for flight Out of this new age boredom lost of Humor, imagination, and surprise

Owen Mundy

Anonymous Song

Adam Balbo

let me take ya to where i'm from well past the great hype well beyond the neon sheath where they don't count the blood type where nursing toddlers in leather pants work on the railroad and dream of steel-spotted carpet dogs always on the phone where yellow bellied pale moon boys buy packaged dice kits drink from liquored tubes and buy the news on ghetto roach clips and though the sun may set on sunshine street the rooster never crows and the only cats up in this tree are standing on their toes paper dolls with matchbox guts are sold off of wall street while claude monet and company burn bras off of beale street where big old cows in five walled rooms speak hebrew and latin but it all seems like chinese to me though it sounds a lot like sanskrit where the unintentional bat of an eye can really speak volumes and diversity is so esteemed we include homogeny where some people really think that mcdonald was irish and captain hook that dirty crook really was marxist where vacant eyes ceramic snakes are bred without tongues made to do armcurls with pencils and breathe with chainlink lungs the only thing that's keepin' 'em up is the ground u'neath their bellies initially born with limbs but amputated 'cause they felt as weak as jelly these slithering snakes avoid the noose by dribbling out their venom they beat the heat with mattress springs or anything that they give 'em but panda bears in aluminum trees they feel the coldest breeze and the green lady of the granite sea she's accused of being a tease where chinese cowboys in sombrero hats are washing their new cars they clean 'em in time for their favorite show w.c.w. no holds barred on the couch they got corn on the cob and japanese rice cakes they make fists and grit and punch the air and talk as if someone's there their neighbors are from omaha with ties to the italian mob one's half black one's a hacker and another one drives a saab and all of them speak good english to their mother when she's around but they get their clothes from department stores and have to drive to cross town try and show me the color of guilt i'll show you the golden calf it was melted down but it's heart still pounds both sides of the great divide three white girls with ironed fros are driving out to the mall in their steel framed carriage holding plastic despair in the form of cd's and barbie dolls trinkets like hairspray perfume and makeup line the store shelves one tries on a disney gown but frowns 'cause the sound of the mirror she found was fake the other two duke it out for the shoes that's supposedly made of glass they ask the clerk what it's really worth she hands them a blade of grass

A Blank Space Where We Used to Be

Peart Chan

night to say hi, I'm fine, he told me that our cat had When I called Jake last It was our once-a-month check-in call, our way to say that we still cared, died. We had seen a lot of friends tear their that the end of "us" was not the end of us. love to shreds and wreck their lives with it, and we swore that we would not do the same. I packed up and moved out with a smile and a wave. It was sad, but there was no rage or guilt. Just a smile and a wave, this is your chair, these are my books. - And now we were friends. On two far-flung coasts, in search of two far-flung We found her curled up in a wet ball dreams. But Moe had been ours, a shared life. in the park. Such a sweet face, a patch of brown here, a smudge of black there. We wrapped her up in a towel and whisked her home. We held her and cooed to her and prayed that she would grow strong. She had no taste for cat food, so she ate what we ate: rice and peas, three-bean soup, pot roast. She loved pan-fried fish with soy sauce. For four years she would dash to the door when we came home at night, no voice to meow but a gaze so full of joy we were sure she had the soul of a dog. Of course, she would stay in New York with Jake. As with all of the rest of our time, there was no need to fight. I knew his mind, and he knew mine, and they were the same. I gave Moe a kiss on her nose when I left. She did not know that I She ran to the would not be back, but she seemed to sense that my kiss was off. Jake a hug and a kiss at the crawl space and could not be coaxed out. I gave couch door, but these were off too. It's been eight months. Wow, time flies. School is good. Yes, work is good... There's snow on the ground. Oh, it's not too cold here. ...Moe died. She had some kind of worm. She did not want to eat. I had to feed her by hand, food mashed up with drops of some stuff the vet gave me. She got so thin in the end. But she still tried to smile for me. My room was cold when I hung up the phone. I switched off the light and thought of Moe, small and still in our bed, her breath a sigh mixed with ours. left that in New York, too.

Every Evening

Nicolette Bond

I watch the sunset Make love to my window pain Blood red rays of connection Drip along the sides The glass is warm and glowing A hot-pink proof of their desire. The wind outside is moaning, it's sliding to its knees while birds are going crazyshaking in the trees. Before the orange kissed glass gets to shatter in delight. the sun withdraws all of her splendor and offers up the night.

A Change

SarahAssenmacher

sticks and stones bounce off her bones and physically she's stable but she always cries to see the lies that are laid upon the table. obligations cloud communication she cannot speak a word her mouth is closed, her ears exposed, her emotions are deferred. they close their eyes to broken lives and hers is no exception left in the lurch is a hopeless search for heavenly protection. her sing-song verses prevent the curses she wishes she could say she's learning to dance and taking a chance on throwing everything away. her mind now clear, she has no fear of what the night will bring but who knows how long will be the song she tentatively sings.

My first

Aaron Spicer

You would be 9 months old by now I would come into your nursery with the sunrise quietly, holding your warmth with the first rays your smile, melting the frost from morning in my eyes stronger than coffee. your smell, lingering on my work shirt fading, into the grease and oil, and dirt until, daydreaming of looking into your dark brown eyes like mine my fingers no longer turning wrenches running, through little strands of blonde curls like your mothers the only person, who will ever know, what

you felt like.

Mildred

John T. Pearson

1 From the chalk field there sprouts a bush a nice outcropping above needle laden ground 2 Though late December tries to cover there sprouts a bush gnarled and prickly like the as of yet unaccustomed morning pulling at my clothes 3 There, a peppered thrush passes tired from ruffling breath she simmers through the brittle branches and begins her song 4 one of wail strengthened by her puffed brown chest 5 she breathes clouds in front of her beak crystalline trace of pulse as frost grips a wrinkled black berry 6 All this I see on wind's airy remembrance and break the bond we had created this region and I 7 From a white chalked field there stood a bush and I once with a passive heart I stood in her regard

Backyard Superhero

Brant Fechter

A beautiful sunset passed by, As I fumbled through my clothes drawers For the red superhero cape Made especially for me! It used to be as bright as my smile, And with it I had the confidence A super hero needs to fight The evils that engulf the world I raced to my backyard swing set

The ornament of my childhood. I kept lifting myself higher and higher With each thrust forward. I couldn't resist the thrill of flight, Nevermind the drop between me and the ground. But, it was something that a superhero Just had to do! I kept hearing my mom call As loud as she possibly could "Brant, time for dinner!" "BBRRAANNNTTTT, tttiiimmee ffoorr ddiinnnnnneeeerrrrrr!" But, a superhero is sly in his ways Of stealing the cookies his mom hides, So with a destroyed appetite I paid her no mind As I called back, "Coming!" I wondered if it was possible To fly around the cemented set. My dad said that even a superhero couldn't swing around But I have always believed otherwise.

Michigan

MarkSniade

Michigan held the rapier's point to his opponent's throat; held it there for Michigan's opponent--the famililial wraith--grinned the whole time. twenty minutes. It had to; a familial wraith is only a skull and some ethereal shrouding in the shape of a body, tattered gray webbing capped by generations of the same family living within their walls. All the strife, all the bad emotion, all the most secret pains and irrational conflicts that arise within a family, the kinds of turmoil that these are what create a could never be expressed to or understood by an outsider: Or till it is slain. familial wraith, and it exists until the house falls. Michigan was waiting for the wraith to speak. As the moonlight slithered across the wall his sword arm began to tremble. Still the wraith stood silent against the wall, grinning, wafting in some unfelt abysmal draft. The house grew more ominous around Michigan, the moon became obscured by clouds. He could barely see to the end of his blade, but the skull glowed faintly, so faint that the longer Michigan looked at it the harder it became to see, and only by averting his eyes and using his peripheral vision could he even verify that it was still there. Always a waiting game with familial wraiths, Michigan thought. They never give up their secrets easily. "Come on, out with it, Johnson," he whispered, "I grow impatient. I haven't That was a lie. got all night." There was no reply. Another minute passed. The room lightened as the clouds moved past the moon. The skull seemed somehow closer, but neither of them had moved. Then, at last, it spoke. A high-pitched voice of indeterminate sex filled the room, emanating from the walls, the floor, the furniture. It echoed down the staircase, called up from the basement, came muffled from inside closets. The words were spoken in a kind of buzzing language that sounded almost capable of being made by a human tongue, but was occasionally punctuated by a word that sounded more like the snap of an electrical discharge than any dialect of the living world. "We aren't happy at being made to give up our secrets... We think you should mind your own business--" here Michigan pushed the sword tip a fraction of an inch closer, and the voice lurched slightly before going on, "--but we want more for you to let us live on as we can...You want to know of our riches, do you not?" "Yes," Michigan growled. His voice was low, deep and rumbling from his throat.

"You had almost found our riches when you dug us up... let us go back, and we will show you our..." The voice, which had been one entity until now, suddenly broke up into many shouting voices, some of children, some of adults, some like cackling old men and women. "Jewels!" "Gold!" "Riches!" "Coins!" "Rings!" "Blood!" "BLOOD!"

"Enough!" cried Michigan, and the tip of the rapier entered the ethereal shroud below the skull's jaw. "We will take you to our riches, we promise, we promise..." The voice was begging, sad, and frightened, but beneath the fear Michigan heard an acrid note of hate. This house would kill him yet, if he was not careful. Slowly he lowered the sword. The wraith began to drift toward the basement door, the (continued on page 24)

Owen Mundy

yellowish skull floating silently as the ghostly limbs made the motions of walking. When it reached the door its arm passed right through the wood, and what might have been comical from a safer distance was a chilling scene for Michigan: the wraith continued to walk forward, its legs passing through easily, but then there was a loud knock as the skull struck the wood chin first and was spun The skull wobbled a bit on its misty body, and the empty black sockets sideways. stared at Michigan as the wraith took a step backwards. "We need you to open the door." The sword came up again. Michigan Sant was a big man, an experienced killer in his own right, and this was not the first spirit he had been close to. But something about that skull...he decided what made him so terrified of that skull was that it was a real thing, a solid object with depth and texture. Ghosts were like tricks of the light, illusions, dream images. The wraith's body From the moment he uncovered it, and it But that skull was real. was like that. rose into the air on its own, the body bleeding into the air below it like spun glass and cobwebs...it terrified him. His only comfort was the rapier - a blade forged and finished within the last two days, just as the legends stated. The age of the blade was all that mattered. The tome he read had been very specific. A two-day blade to slay the shade. Still, he shuddered when it asked him to open the door. He came forward slowly, each step unwilling, until there was scarcely a foot between his ear and the smiling jaws of the familial wraith. He turned the handle and flung open the door, jumping back as it swung wide. He gestured with the sword. "Get down there, now." staircase. to float down the It began suddenly. "Stay still." "Wait," Michigan said He reached into his pocket and pulled out a candle and box of kitchen matches. Lighting the candle, he glanced around the room, searching for a candle holder. Then he remembered seeing one in the basement the first time he went down. "Alright, go on." Michigan and the wraith descended, Michigan holding the candle out so the hot wax would not burn him. At the bottom of the staircase was a small table with a candlestick lying dusty and tarnished underneath it. He put the candle in, and motioned for the wraith to lead on. They walked a path already familiar to Michigan, and he could see his own footsteps in the dust on the floor leading to and from the farthest room of the basement. The wraith continued to glide forward, and occasionally a tiny laugh would emit from inside the wall or the ceiling above Michigan's head. This was not a mansion, but there was enough house above to account for these cedarpaneled catacombs below. The hallway was low and tight, a claustrophobe's nightIt mare, a twisting thing with doorways on either side, black and opaque. quickly became apparent they were heading back to the same room he dug the skull up in, the room with the dirt floor and the gray stone walls. The door was black and somehow hungry-looking ahead of them. The wraith spun its skull around as if to make sure Michigan was still following, and he gave it a meaningful jab in the back with the tip of the rapier. The skull slowly rotated around--and not the direction it had come from, but completing its revolution. A chuckle came from the wall on his right. Michigan thumped it with his fist, and it let out a loud HA! before going silent. The last doorway at the end of the hallway loomed. The candle's light was much less comforting than And they went inside. Michigan's flashlight had been, the flashlight he dropped in his mad chase after the wraith through the many rooms of the house. The house had laughed then, too, hysterically. Now all was silent, save for his breath, and all was dark, save for the ten-foot circle of candlelight. It threw the skull's shadow onto the

wall.

The body made no such shadow. "Where is it Johnson." The breath of the command made the flame dance. The words of the command were swallowed up by the dirt. The command went unanswered. "Dammit, Johnson. Where is it!" Michigan held the sword ready to strike. If he went home empty-handed, so be it, but the underworld would not claim him this night... this early, early morning... The skull was at an odd angle, not facing him, but looking to the back of the room, near the ceiling. Michigan made himself look, and noticed something he hadn't before. A thin rectangle of grayness. Of light. Dawn's earliest light, filling the window well, the color of 5 A.M. fog. Dawn. Dawn of the third day. The house spoke. "Your blade is old... so very ol111111111111111111111d..." Then the voices were silent, and the wraith itself giggled. Michigan's eyelids peeled themselves back, unable to look away from the skull. It spun around horribly fast, and he realized the giggling was coming from it, loud and piercingly clear, mad giggling jumping octave after octave with each passing moment, and then the jaw dropped open, wide as it would go, and the skull rushed to meet his face, and the candle fell, and all was dark.

Marc Sniadecki

The shaved lunch meat blended with an old hand, the convolutions of smoked turkey nearly matching its wrinkled flesh. Only the liver spots made it distinguishable. "Eh... now, did you say a half a pound?" The customer looked at Ed Kantz blankly, then remembered he was in a deli and nodded. He quickly went back to worrying about stock prices. Ed packaged the meat, his hands having a little trouble with the Ziplock bag and the label, which got stuck on the scale and ripped. "Sorry about that," he said, and his words were like the tortoise, slow and steady. "Let me just punch in the code again..." The customer wasn't even looking. Another half-minute later Ed finished the transaction. He checked his watch and began hunting for Mr. Derringer, the deli manager. He found him in the freezer. "Mr. Derringer I need to go a little early today," Ed said, shivering. White mist rolled around the half-open door. "I got to keep an appointment." Mr. Derringer was one-third Ed's age, and dressed for power. His starched shirt created an aura of professionalism around him. Currently his back was turned to Ed and he was taking inventory of the chicken nuggets. "Sure, Ed, not a problem!" Mr. Derringer always talked like there was a gun pointed at him and he was happy to see it. "We can hold down the fort. Man with your seniority needn't ask twice!" "Thank--" "Don't mention it! Please shut the door behind you." Ed, having not actually ventured inside the freezer, closed the door in front of him, happy to shut in the cold. Walking with the leisurely gait of the elderly he went to the employee breakroom and unlocked his locker, and withdrew a large black duffel bag. With considerable effort he slung it over one shoulder and headed towards the men's room, stopping to grab a bearclaw from a box of donuts on the breakroom table. By the time he reached the men's room Ed was licking his fingers. He commandeered a stall from a janitor who was hiding there reading Sports Illustrated. Then Ed unzipped the duffel bag, and with the slowness of a snake shedding its skin he removed his work clothes and put on the suit coat and pants contained therein. In the bathroom mirror Ed adjusted a sharp burgundy bowtie and grinned. One hour later Ed was standing alone on a small stone bridge near the edge of Brown County State Park. The duffel bag sat on the edge of the bridge next to him, and if it had had eyes both sentinels would have been staring expectantly down the road, watching the leaves fall. The brook muttered lazily beneath him, but the air was still as a January salamander. Still, and stifling--but just right for an old man with an old furnace. He couldn't stop grinning, and his hand kept patting the duffel bag as if to make sure it still contained the thing he had put in it that morning. Suddenly, just as the sun managed to elbow a window between the dense clouds, a car came around the bend. As it cleared the trees, Ed recognized the black BMW with the "FRTUNE HNTR" vanity plate. The vehicle stopped fifteen feet from the bridge; a black-clad man exited the driver's door swiftly and went around to open the back door. A crow cawed in the trees. Gerald Holt rose into view. * Barely half a decade younger than Ed, Gerald looked considerably stronger. And yet the grooves under his eyes made him look more well-worn. He wore an old-fashioned suit much like Ed's, but with a dark blue necktie and a neatly pressed handkerchief in the breast pocket. He walked like the hare, bold and striding. "Mr. Kantz!" If anyone could bellow and still sound friendly, it was Gerald Holt. "How the hell are you, old boy? Have you been waiting long?" Ed saved his

voice until

they were within

the

range for

normal

"Gerald... well, yes, a long wait but the day is beautiful."

speech.

"Uh-huh. So have you brought it?" "Yes, Gerald, it's right in here..." He patted the duffel bag again and Gerald began to eye it hungrily. For the rest of the conversation his eyes would hardly leave it. "But first, let's go over our contract one more time." Ed pulled a small scroll from his suit coat, then began patting his pockets. "If I can just find my... eh, my...oh, yes." He leaned over and reached a hand into the duffel bag, rifling what sounded like wadded-up newspapers with all the hurriedness of a three-toed sloth. If Ed had been watching Gerald's face he would have seen the man's manic gaze as he tried to catch a glimpse of the bag's contents. Ed's hand returned, clutching his reading glasses. "Ah yes, that's better. Now--" he broke the seal on the contract--"Amiable Agreement Between Mister Edward James Kantz and Mister Gerald Lucius Holt, Witnessed by Misses Claire Denton, September the Nineteenth, Nineteen Hundred and Forty--" "It's a sound agreement, Ed," Gerald interrupted. "No need in drudging up all those legal trappings again. You and I have known exactly what this deal is about since Istanbul. Now tell me truthfully: do you really have it in there?" Ed's grin was a chiseled monument. "You never did have much faith in me, Gerry." He reached into the duffel bag and unloaded his burden. It was. a piano leg. Black lacquer finish, with grooves running its length and a bulbous foot on one end. At the top the lacquer had been sheered away in places by mis-strokes with the handsaw. A strange mustiness infused the air around it, that indistinct aura of things that are very, very old. "I'm saving the story of how I found it for Christmas," Ed said as he delivered the strange relic into his associate's trembling hands. "You and Claire will be there?" "Of course, of course...yes, of course..." "I can tell you that the map is safe and sound inside. The leg is like a Chinese puzzle box. Here--" Ed handed Gerald a small envelope--"this is the solution. Took me nearly as long to figure that out as it did to find the piano. I thought you would like to know the reward of working the puzzle for yourself." "Yes, of course, working..." The way Gerald gripped the envelope suggested he was not looking for a brainteaser." "You're welcome, Gerald?" That brought him back around. Straightening and taking a deep, wheezing breath, Gerald put the envelope in his coat pocket and shook Ed's hand. No words of thanks issued from his lips, but he was all smiles. Ed stood on the bridge, watching Gerald stride back to the car triumphant, patiently wondering if he would remember to return with a suitcase full of money. Sweat beaded on Ed's brow; his fingers toyed with the scroll. Gerald got into the back of his car. Ed's heart did dangerous backflips. Gerald emerged from the car, carrying a black briefcase. Death backed slowly away and re-mounted his horse as Ed's pulse slowed. "A good contract, Ed. And we did a fair job of accounting for inflation, though you'll find I've padded your fee even further. These have been good years for me." "Good for you," Ed grinned. "See you at Christmas?" "See you at Christmas, Gerald." The BMW's engine purred into life. Ed raised one hand. The driver honked once, apparently at Gerald's command. As the car made its U-turn Ed slung the duffel bag lightly over his shoulder, and hefted the briefcase off the ground. He watched as the car went up the road, till it turned the bend and was lost. Six seconds later there was a horrendous "boom" and a column of black smoke licked by fire rose up over the trees. Ed was still grinning, and his mouth only relaxed gradually, over the course of the five-minute walk to his car. On a tropical beach a pig had been cooked and buried, and as Ed tore off a piece his wrinkled hands stood out against the charred flesh like the garland of pink blossoms wreathing his neck. His liver spots, however, blended in perfectly.

Armani

Blake Carrington

San Toki, Toki-ya

Tasha Aardappel

My Mother always knew how to read the deepest parts of my heart like she knew how to make the best Korean Kim-Chee in the world. It had been a Friday, my junior year in college, when my boyfriend broke up with me for some French girl. I was holding a cup of hot peppermint tea in my hands. Ben had put too much sugar in it as ususal but I was drinking it anyway. We were sitting side by side on his bed, which was a single mattress laying crookedly in the middle of the floor. He was wearing a thick black sweater that I had bought him. He had sipped his tea comfortably as he spoke. He told me that she liked practicing her English. He liked being needed. He said that he finally felt like he was doing something good for someone else. The break-up took twenty-three minutes minus the two times that Gabby, the French girl, called. Both times, Ben answered the phone with "Bonjour." He even rolled his tongue for the girl. I thought I was going to puke. When I left, he thanked me for being so understanding of him. He said he didn't know what he'd do without me, that I was special to him, and then he put his arms out to ask for a hug. He was smiling. I half returned his smile, imagined the tea all over his face and neck and then put the cup on the floor instead and left. The coldness of my car offered me its unwelcome. I pulled the rearview mirror down to look at my face. I wondered what Gabby looked like. So many times Ben had used to brush his pinky finger over the tops of my eyes and say, "you're my beautiful almond eyed girl." He always said that was his favorite thing about me. My eyes seemed as if they were becoming more and more slanted as I looked at myself. And my hair, it was too black. I had to take my gloves off to wipe my running nose and tears dripping out from under my glasses. The electronic speedometer in my car had broken down at the beginning of the semester, and it never showed my speed until the car had sufficiently warmed up. That day, there was a cop behind me. I was nervous, crying and shivering. When I reached my apartment parking lot I thanked God for letting me not get pulled over and then I yelled up at him for everything else. The speedometer turned on after that. My mom had told me numerous times that Ben was not for me. She would call me to say hello and the conversation always turned to Ben. "Sophie-ah, how Ben doing? He treat you alright?" "Yeah, Mom, gee." "Sophie-ah, you sure he taking good care of you?" "It's not like we're married, Mom." "Then why you bother all you time with him?" "Mom." "Okay, okay. I just think he's too much little boy. He not for you, Sophie-ah." "Mom." "Someday, you see. I just keep praying and you see someday." The rest of the conversation was always the same, me getting upset and us fighting until I told her I had to go. She would tell me how much I reminded her of herself when she was young; so unable to see the "face of my heart." Then she would ramble on and on about how God could help me, how Jesus could see me better than Ben. My Mom lived forty-five minutes away. We had moved from Korea to the States when I was six. My Dad's whole family lived in Wisconsin, and when we had moved there, he started to change. The smell of Kim-Chee in the fridge started to bother him, and he would complain about my mom having to cook rice every night. My mom would always say that rice goes with everything. The fighting only increased. It became my alarm clock in the mornings and my lullaby at night. Four

years later, when I was ten, my Dad left us both for another woman. I saw him with her at the mall once after he had lfet. She had blonde hair, cut neatly at the shoulders. But what I remember most was the way that she laughed and walked beside him so confidently. I had hid myself behind one of the decoration plants in the middle of the mall and watched them together. I knew that this woman wouldn't need help reading the price tags, and she probably liked to sit up straight and eat delicately with a fork and knife. She was the kind of woman who would buy Uncle Ben's rice when she attempted to be a bit exotic and make an Asian-style dinner. My Mom always said that my Dad never really knew her. And I'd always argue, "What do you mean? He's your husband?" It wasn't until I saw him laughing with that other woman that I finally believed my Mom. Most of my Mom's family in Korea had died in the war when she was young, and her brother was no longer speaking to her because she didn't send him the money we didn't have. Jesus and I were all she claimed to live for. And she called me evey other day just to remind me of it. When I got into the apartment, it was cold and bare. My neighbor's music was shaking the left wall of the kitchen. My face was dry and stinging from the tears. My roommate Eileen was gone for the weekend. There was a note left on the refrigerator door wishing me a good weekend. I looked into the fridge and saw nothing appetizing. I called home. "Hello." My Mom's voice was loudly comforting. I felt a small knot begin to well up in my throat. "Mom?"

"Sophie-ah, what's a matter?" "Nothing. What are you doing?" "Oh. Just watching T.V. movie. You need help with you homework? You run out of money again?" My Mom still thinks I have homework like I did in elementary school. "No Mom, I just thought maybe I'd come home tonight. I kinda wanted to get out of here for the weekend." "Eileen not there? You fight with Ben?" "No. I just wanted to get away. I don't have to be with Ben every weekend, do I?"

"I didn't say that. You come home if you want. I make some mandu for you or you want duk-guk instead?" "Oh, I don't care. I'll leave here in a few minutes, okay?" "Okay." "Bye, Mom." "Okay." My mom would never say good-bye on the phone, only "Okay" or "See you." I got some clothes together, a book for class, my purse and then I left. When I got home, the house was filled with warmth. I could hear the television going. I could smell the den-jang soup cooking in the kitchen. The strength of it seemed to find me immediately and paste itself to my black coat and slide into my long black hair. I brushed my hair with my fingers in the entryway mirror, and leaned in close to make sure my eyes weren't too puffy. "What take you so long!" My Mother came stomping around the corner in her favorite nightie that was spotted with faded orange kim-chee stains that rested among the little blue flowers. The nightie hung loosely over her body, and she held a wooden spoon in her hand. "What do you mean? It always takes me forty-five minutes to get home, doesn't it?" "Hmph. Come on, eat." Her size five and a half Keds, her Nikes and her black boots were lined up right inside the door. She had already put a pair of slippers out for me. I took my coat off and wiggled my feet out of my tennis shoes to slip the green slippers (continued on page 32)

Owen Mundy

over my toes and onto my feet. The screen door in the kitchen was cracked open even though it was the middle of winter and the heat was on. This was so that the smoke detector wouldn't go off while my mom burned seaweed pieces over the stove burners. There was all kinds of food waiting for me on the counter. There was a long rectangular Tupperware container full of perfectly round kim-pop rolls of spinach, egg and carrots, my favorite. The mandu sat beside the rolls, brown, crisp and steaming ready to eat. "You hungry?" She stirred the den-jang soup on the stove. "Looks like you're ready to feed the five thousand." "Oh - Sophie-ah, you reading the Bible I give you?" Her eyes widened as she sipped some of the soup up with her wooden spoon. "Just a joke mom." "Put you -stuff down, sit down and relax." She went over to the rice cooker and dished the sticky rice out onto my plate and set it in front of me on the counter. "Look terrible, Sophie-ah." "Thanks Mom." I sighed. She placed a bowl of salsa beside me to dip the mandu in; something my Dad had loved to eat. I popped a kim-pop roll into my mouth. They were perfectly salty and fresh. She stood on the other side of the counter while I ate, picking off of my plate, sipping her den-jang soup out of the pot and staring at me. The rice was warm and welcoming. There were three jars full of kim-chee on the counter. They were stuffed full of the spicy cabbage and radish and they stood like soldiers ready for battle. My Mom had always told me that when I got married she would teach me how to make kim-chee, her kim-chee. She said it would then become my secret and I could make it for my own family someday. "This kim-chee the best you know," she'd always say. After we ate, we curled up on her heated floor mat that lay in the middle of the living room where a coffee table should have been. We let our bodies become numb and heavy from the heat. We watched television for a while; engrossing ourselves in a few different movie endings we would never remember. When the last one finished, she got up and said she was going to go and take a bath. "Sophie-ah, you want to take one too?" "Uh - no Mom, that's okay." I rolled my eyes at her and turned the T.V back on. I hadn't taken a bath with my Mom since I was six years old, when we lived in Korea. It was when I still spoke Korean with her. All three of us would take baths together, and we would take turns scrubbing each other's backs. In Korean, my Mom and I would sing my favorite song about a little rabbit. My Dad would laugh at us, as we'd make hand motions of a bunny hopping through the water. The song sings to the little rabbit, asking her where is she going, where is she going? The little rabbit replies by only jumping, jumping away. Over the mountains she goes, hopping, and hopping. At the end of the song, the little rabbit finally comes back to her home because it is too cold for her to be alone in the mountains. I was always so happy to motion the rabbit when she came back home. When we moved here, I told my friends in elementary school about how I took baths with my parents. She told me that was "diss-guss-ting" and then told other kids. They made fun of me for months. In Korea, it was not strange, it was simply family. Here if you were this close to your family there was suspicion of something not being right. My Mom could never understand things like this. I listened to the way my Mom's slippers sounded as she shuffled up the stairs. I heard the bathwater begin to run and then become quiet as the door shut behind her. I flipped through the T.V. channels over and over. I thought of calling Ben. I thought about all of the nights when we had stayed up talking. He had been such a good listener. I had loved how he watched me when I talked but I had always wondered what he was looking at or why I always left his place thinking something else needed to have been said but never able to think of what it

was. I thought about how my Mom always said he didn't really see me. I defended his lack of sight by how good of a listener he was. She said that seeing and listening were two different things. My mom was singing upstairs. I flipped the television off and listened to her. "San toki, toki ya, oh diru kanun ya..." It was the song about the little rabbit. I walked upstairs slowly. I knocked on the bathroom door and the singing stopped. "Come in." I opened the door, and sat on the floor of the bathroom and watched my mom in the tub. Her tan skin was loose at her tummy, and her body was round and chubby. The familiar jagged white line from her belly button down stood out and I remembered how many times she had pointed to this scar and said "Sometimes best things come from scars, from this one God gave me you." There was steam rising around her from the water. "You want to come in? Water still warm." Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail on top of her head so that it stuck out from her head like an onion sprout. Her face was beet red from the heat. "Ah. Nah, I'll just sit here." "Okay. Have it you way." She started to sing again. I thought about when I was a little girl; how my Mom would brush my hair after our baths. She'd brush and brush with such an intensity that I'd cry my eyes out every time and then get a smack on the head with the brush for crying. I never had tangles. Then she'd pull all of my jet-black hair up into two thick pigtails. She had even confessed that she had prayed that I would get her eyes, not my dad's. I got his hazel eyes; she gave them the slant. My Mom looked back over at me from the tub. "Sophie-ah, come on, you need bath. Good for you." I rolled my eyes. "I just took a shower this afternoon." "You quick shower not like my bath. Come on." I sat there for a moment staring at her like she was crazy. Then slowly, I undressed and stepped into the water. "Ayy!" The water felt like hot needles pricking at my legs and ankles. "You still baby, the water still too hot for you?" She started laughing at me. "Gosh, Mom. It's practically burning my skin off." I sighed. "Why do you have to be so annoying?" She stopped laughing. "Why you so grumpy Sophie-ah? Been grumpy since I see you." "What are you talking about? You don't know what you're talking about." I looked down at my toes in the water. We soaked our bodies in the hot water, not speaking. The only sound was my mom's hands swirling the water back and forth on both sides of her. "Sophie-ah, don't fit like we used to. You legs so long and I get too fat." "You're not fat, Mom." "You mom may not speak English too good but I know when my own daughter is lying to me." "I'm not lying." I tried scooting myself lower into the water. "You really aren't fat. You should be happy you look so young for your age." "Not talking about being fat, Sophie-ah." I rolled my eyes. "Turn around." She motioned for me to turn around. I turned around and pulled my legs to my body and my mother started to scrub my back. The roughness of her long washcloth felt good on my back, and I could feel my back turning pink. While she was scrubbing, she started to sing (continued on page 35)

Owen Mundy

again in Korean. As she sang, I began to cry. The quiet tears dripped from my chin into the water. I watched each of them drip. When she was done, she cupped water into her hands and let it gently run down my neck and back to wash the soap off. I splashed water over my face to hide the tears and then turned to do her back. We said nothing to each other. She continued singing until we were ready to get out. She dried off and put her nightie back on. The long cotton tee shirt hung to her knees and stuck to part of her body that was still wet. She looked up at me as I dressed into my yellow tee shirt and gray sweatpants. The tip of my ponytail was wet from dipping into the water and looked like the tip of a black paintbrush. I could feel the heat in my face and the dizziness in my head. "Sophie-ah, Ben not really see you. You stay strong; keep going. God is always with you, he see you Sophie-ah." She looked at me for only a second longer and then walked out of the bathroom and down the hall to her room. I stood there in the bathroom for a long time. I looked into the mirror and listened to the bathwater draining. We didn't talk about Ben for the rest of the weekend. When I got back to my apartment on Sunday, it was as cold and as bare as I had left it. My mom called at one in the morning to make sure I was home. "Sophie-ah, oh. You there?" "Yeah Mom, I'm here." "What you doing? Eileen there? You talk to Ben?" "Yeah, Eileen's here. She's trying to sleep Mom. I haven't talked to Ben."

"Remember what I say right?" "I know." "When you coing home again?" "I don't know Mom. I'll call you soon." "Okay, see you." I hung up the phone, knowing she would call within the next two days. I only saw Ben a few times the rest of that year. My Mom didn't act surprised when I stopped bringing his name up altogether. She called every other day, probing with whatever she could. I still rolled my eyes at her comments. But something in me had forever changed. A piece of her was rubbed into me the night we took the bath. It was as if, pieces of her pain, everything mysterious in her life that I could not know but felt, was rubbed into me. And it was that year that I started to take baths in the evenings when I was the loneliest. Every time I take a bath now I sing about the little rabbit. And sometimes, whan I am done, I brush my hair out fiercely and then look straight into my slanted eyes in the mirror and smile for all that I'm made of. "You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother's womb. ... You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb. You saw me before I was born." (Psalm 139:13-15)

(ipay you 10 dollars...)

Carrie Vrabel

i pay you 10 dollars a week to tell me not to give up and i'd pay you 20 if you'd take it if you'd take 20 dollars of waitress money straight out of my black and fading waitress book straight out of the pockets of those i've served i'd do it i'd hear canine familiar whistles and i'd keep a happy face on through business card leaving demands i'd keep trying to not see my father in every man's face if those dollar bills that i fold into my pocket channel you through george washington like a real clairvoyant i'd stand in front of you in dead president form and watch you mouth the words whisper the words "don't give up" once a dollar twenty times a week

Rupture

Jason Shimotake

The full moon hangs over the house tonight. The tiles are glowing from stars sifted onto linoleum in 2 AM silence. The streams of light grope through the cracked window. He comes home in the middle of my meditation, and stumbles into my silence.

Emma Jean Listens to Mama

Stephanie Lawyer

"Emma Jean, you keep away from that road, hear?" Mama's words echoed through her head as she sat in the grass by the gnarled plum tree. From there she could see the grey asphalt slab beyond the lawn's edge. Beyond that she saw the golden waves of Daddy's wheat field and beyond that the crisp blue of the autumn sky. But it was the road that held her attention, dragging her eyes from the single cloud high above, from the hypnotic dance of the field crop. She loved the way she could hear the trucks lumbering in the distance, hear the quiet roar - feel it - before they barreled past the white farmhouse, leaving a wake of wind that raised gravel dust into the air and tore away the leaves of the nearby maple. "Them trucks'll squash you." She stood, the small picnic with its tiny plastic cups and dishes forgotten on the old baby blanket, and the rag dolls fell backwards, still smiling, their blank doll-eye stare gazing heavenward. The back screen door slammed shut in its wooden frame, and Emma Jean flinched, watching for signs of her mother. Only the white housecat appeared beyond the bushes. "Pitty, pitty.

'Mere, pitty."

The cat cocked an ear at the sound but continued through the grass, and the girl ran towards it. As she neared, the cat froze, hunching back on its hindquarters as if to pull its feet from cement hardened around them. "That's a good pitty." The girl let her fingers comb its thick fur before she scooped the cat into her arms. Its legs dangled down the front of her dress - one that Mama had told her was too worn for good but just fine for play. The cat struggled for a moment then fell still, and Emma Jean carried it back to the plum tree's shade. The cat closed its eyes. She stared at the road. The low growl sounded in the distance, and she smiled, carefully walking forward. She stopped at the edge of the road, dimly hearing the gravel crunch beneath her small tennis shoes as the hum of hot rubber throbbed through the asphalt before her. Emma Jean could see the truck now, the dust-covered windshield rising above the snarling silver grill. She knew that the truck's dingy orange paint would be broken on the sides, giving way for the white words of "Petersen's Gravel". Her daddy had read them to her. As the truck neared, Emma Jean felt the air change, growing thick and heavy, and the cat squirmed against her body, its claws digging into soft flesh and bringing blood. She threw her arms open, frowning at the wide-eyed face of the driver as he saw her - a young girl standing by the road, her arms outstretched, perhaps innocently waiting to retrieve a ball from the ditch beyond. The cat's head disappeared into the truck's maw. Thin rivulets of blood feathered the rust-pitted fenders and speckled Emma Jean's face and dress-front. She saw the cat's body cling to the bumper, momentarily glued fast by its own gummy innards, then fall to the pavement, oozing pink guts and twitching. The truck flashed past. It continued down the road, the gated bed's log chain clanging as the asphalt dipped then rose. The wind brought dirt to Emma Jean's eyes, and her hair and dress whipped around her face and slight body. She stared after the truck, feeling the excitement fade as it vanished behind the hill. She turned away and slowly skipped back to the patient guests who'd come for tea. They smiled at her as she propped them up once more, spoke to them and poured out, her words sing-songing yet soft: "Should have stayed out of the ro-oad."

my muse...

Michael Clarkson

without hersad sick poor crying missing longing reaching feeling nothing but always having her i could write the tragedy for the ages the teary futile wrenching prose the non-fiction of the lost love and dream of the life not lived with hertrue happy loving joyous smiling sharing complete feeling those feelings so long left unfelt having her for always i can write the pure nights together the eyes that fill my heart the flushed cheeks beat skipping heart unyeilding smile soft touch softer kiss

Cocoon

Mark Sniadecki

and live my dreams for just one day Dream up a night life to fill in my sleep, And string me a web of subconscious so deep, And weave me a lullaby to slow my heart's beat; I never have dreaded a canticle sweet, Go spin me songs of chrysalis. Work through a memory long buried low, And seek out the substance of slumber to sew Deriving the fibers to spend with your hands From courtesies begged of the Fellow of Sands; Come, stitch my weary eyes closed. For needy and weedy is this dusk field of mind; Plant it and shroud it with velvet in kind, And cover me, cloak me with whispers black-Lay me to sleep in a star-patterned sack As moth back to cocoon.

The Beach

Bake Carrington

Busia

Heather Danielewicz

Her wrinkled hands knead the dough Worn from years of hard work Scrubbing floors to make enough To buy Levi's at Sears for my father She presses her hand deeper into the mound And flattens the soft glob out with a rolling pin We can almost see eye to eye I've grown since she last saw me She remarks Her silver hair is cut short She covers it with a knitted hat She was always bundled up in sweaters and hats I'm the little girl hovering by her side Doing my ballet routine for her A few ungraceful twirls and kicks She softly presses her hands together As if in prayer And smiles Praising my dancing Telling me I'll be a dancer some day Mixing Polish with her thickly accented English She works all day In our kitchen Teaching my mom how to make poor man's perogies Ox tail stew And her special apple pie A true Polish artist Mixing recipes from her homeland With words of wisdom and love I'm a child Spinning by her side Watching her cook Practicing the Polish she teaches me I've forgotten most of it Now whenever my mother cooks Polish food I think of Busia Standing in the kitchen Listening to All My Children Yelling at the characters on TV Watching me spin at her side Mixing Polish with English Her hands reaching deep into the dough The faint smell of mothballs and perfume And I'm spinning So fast That the memories become a blur

Knowing Without Legs

Eric Stephens

He wore faded jeans. The blue dye disappearing like childhood. A white T, and weathered tennis shoes. This boy. He never knew me. Never knew I'd be born someday. But I knew him well. Like he was my son. Or maybe my father. In a small industrial town. Where the air was too thick to smell anything sweet. Where the people never went anywhere; dead motors that couldn't sense the heat of ignition if they were over-flooded with magma. In the center of town. A small circle of friends gathered in a rundown studio: a hidden hole in the wall. Where they painted. Where they wrote. The air was different there. They could breathe art, instead of smoke. And it filled them. And became them. He saw his future as if watching a movie: he would be in London; walking the city streets; painting for the English public. He was always looking for the fast-forward button. Anything to quicken his leaving: his birth. He used to speak with sunlight in his eyes. That would spread out the shadows covering the faces his friends forgot themselves in. Forgot about what it was to live. What they were born with. Now. He must be a walking ghost. Walking the streets of London at night. Staring into galleries through frosted glass. Watching the parties of people turn into pixels. As he moves on. Taking the footpath through Piccadilly Circus. Where the crowds watch right through him. Only seeing a slight softening of shapes. A quiet whisper of color. As he passes. As he passes. All the people drive off in cars or take the Underground. All going somewhere. He fills up the empty space: a street corner, a curb. Keeping a lonely lamppost company. Lamplight sprinkles down a cone of warmth. Encircling him. He closes his eyes in a little bit of pain. A tight muscle wraps up his torso. As he sees himself as me again. Like looking into a mirror, and feeling the sudden dropping of the knees. Not recognizing the face staring back. Those two black holes inside.

The Orange Truck

Jean-Marie Ruiz

Running out of the front door Onto the porch with the rest of the family Seeing just the back of a Puerto Rican 6 feet tall Mustache Jet-black, wavy hair. We have the same eyes That's all: Dark brown, with an Endless stare. He was walking fast toward a truck. Whose truck? Old and orange Hillbilly inside, One of dad's friends. I always hated orange. Daddy don't go... Please don't go. A sudden throw Of a coffee mug on the sidewalk. "Get the hell out of here And never come back," My grandmother yelled. The mug didn't break. I went out to get it Must have brought it back in that day. A slam of the door A roar of the truck And my father was gone. Not a personal good-bye. Not a single motion To tell me he loved me. No look back at the mug So violently thrown. E...

R...

Dirt on the Road

Chris Gemkow

He fell in love Just outside of his reach Where the Badlands meet the mountains of Montana. Somewhere along alternate route 95 He ponders this notion. This notion That she'll be at the top of the mountain Waiting with the wind and a smile To throw his way, to say "Here it is, what you're looking for." But can he bear to look Or act upon this discovery? Can he save her from being taken by the wind? The wind that hangs Over this tranquil body of water, Hoping to catch a drift from the nearest port To land a hearty vessel.

Good-bye. But will she be swept away by the sail of another, Before he is able to hoist his own? His own sail to catch the love That's floating by With the coming of the tide. He looks in his rearview mirror And peers over his shoulder With hope of a chance encounter. But there is only an orange sign And dirt on the road. He is moving forward But has been left behind.

Ugalino And Sons

Abel Doty

High School in a Nutshell

Michae Loch

"For On top of everything else, James noticed his fly was open. chrissakes!" he said in an angry tone that rivaled God when He gave Moses the Commandments the second time. James looked up to see that Katrina, the beautiful girl from chemistry class walking towards him. She walked away, laughing. "Hi James, nice pants."

Alyssa Hill

TMUI